


Subtle Arrangements

by snapslikethis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, flowershop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7302763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapslikethis/pseuds/snapslikethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Person A owns a flower shop and Person B comes storming in one day, slaps 20 bucks on the counter and says, “How do I passive-aggressively say fuck you in flower?” Jily AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtle Arrangements

Lily grimaced, pausing mid-bite as she heard her shop’s door fly open, its cute little bell clanging violently in protest. She regretfully set down her biscuit.

This was the third time a gust of wind had torn it open in as many hours, and as she moved through her back room, she made a mental note to call her handyman. No, she needed to find his number before she could place a call and negotiate a price. Though he wasn’t an expense she relished, she knew replacing the entire door in two months’ time would cost her even more.

But when she heard footsteps—stomps, really—Lily stopped just short of entering the front end of her shop. She watched a man—tall, crisp suit, and under different circumstances, fit as fuck—storm between her displays, nearly upending a bucket of chrysanthemums with his elbow, and slam something down on the counter next to her till.

Excuse _you_ , fucking much?

“Hello?” he called, when an employee did not immediately appear out of thin air. “Anyone work here?”

“Hello yourself,” she said coolly, stepping out and taking her place behind the counter. “What’d my shop ever do to—”

“I need your help saying 'fuck you' in flowers.”

More a demand than request, the entitled _prick_. Lily raised what she hoped was an imperious eyebrow. She ought to let this slide—he’s a paying customer, or potentially paying customer, after all, but she was in no mood to accommodate arseholery.

 “Try again,” she demanded.

“I—excuse me?”

Lily pressed her hands flat against the rough wood of her counter and glared at him. As he fairly well towered over her, effect was lost, and that would _not_ fucking work. She stepped onto the small stool she used to reach her upper shelves, and when she stretched to her full height, they were—almost—on an even keel. This amused him, and he didn’t have the sense to hide it. “I said, _try_ again. You’ve been nothing but abusive—to my door, to my counter, and you’ll not do the same to me. So, if you’d like to continue this conversation, you’ll need to try _—”_

“Oh, er, sorry.” His grin faded, and he looked thoroughly abashed. Mildly repentant, even?

“Then try again.”

She uncrossed her arms and pointed toward the thing he’d slammed on her counter—money. _Damn_. He slipped it back into his pocket, but he didn’t leave.

Why didn’t he leave?

They stared at each other for a long, moment, rather awkwardly, until he broke the silence. “What now?”

She ought to back down, or ask him what he needs, but this was precedent, or principle. Something. “Try again.”

“Should I—er?” He took a step back.

She nodded, and he took another. Then another, and another, until finally, his arse bumped the back of the door.

“You want me to leave?” he yelped—properly yelped, and it was—cute, the prick. Well, that explained why she hadn’t kicked him out from the start.

She didn’t answer, but crossed her arms again, which was answer enough.

“Can—can I come back in?”

“Can _you_ refrain from taking your temper out on my shop?”

“Can _you_ help me say ‘fuck you’ in flowers?”

And that _was_ funny, wasn’t it? Not at all what she expected to slip from a posh businessman’s mouth. Lily pinched the inside of her arm, to keep from smiling. At length, she answered, “Yes.”

“Then yes.”

“Then yes,” she said, “but you mind your p’s and q’s.”

“All right, I’ll—er—be right back?”

Watching him leave proved incredibly awkward. She should have told him to piss off, but he was rather adorable, all flustered, and she definitely needed the money.

“Hello,” he said smoothly as he reentered the shop, closing the door gingerly behind him. He gave her a winning smile. “How are you on this fine day, my local resident flower expert?”

She rolled her eyes.

“ _You_ were the one who made me leave,” he reminded her. “Thought we’d best start over, yeah?”

“You deserved it.”

“A bit, yeah.” He shrugged. When he ruffed his hair, Lily knew she was in deep shit.

“So you’re done taking your temper—”

“I wasn’t _angry_ , er—?”

“Lily, and yes, that’s actually my name, and no, it’s not a joke, so please don’t—”

“I would never,” he said, barely concealing a grin, “but it _is_ ironic, you’ve got to admit.”

“I do, yeah.” And keen to change the subject, she said, “So—”

“Oh, right. Fuck you.”

She did smile, dammit. This man. “Care to rephrase that?”

“Er, well—”

“Don’t hurt yourself—?”.

“Potter. And I’m not— _angry_ , Lily, I’m purposeful.”

“Purposeful?”

He grinned, a hint of his swagger returning.

“I’d hate to see you angry, then.”

“Oh, all right. I was a _bit_ angry. Thing is, I’ve got—someone I need to tell to piss off, but properly. So, you know” He indicated the shop at large.

“Flowers, yes, we’ve established that, else you’d be in a bakery. Aggressive flowers, or passive-aggressive?”

“There’s a difference?”

“Certainly.”

“Passive-aggressive, I think.”

“You know,” she reasoned, “sending flowers in the first place a passive thing to do, isn’t it?”

He smiled. “Which is why I’m hand delivering them.”

Against her better judgment, she returned his grin. “Oh, well—that’s different, then.”

“Still, I think you’re right, you expert, you. Passive-aggressive is better.”

Laying it on thick, wasn’t he?

“We can do that.”

“So,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I know geraniums, right? Stupidity? That’s about it.”

“No,” Lily said. “I mean _yes_.” He looked at her like she was mad. “There are different kinds, you see.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. And they each mean something different.”

“Which is the bad one, then?”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “Hmm, well, let me look it up.”

“Look it up?”

“Yes, see?” Lily hopped off the stool and pulled a large volume out from one of the open shelves behind her. It landed on the counter with a heavy thud, and the spine cracked satisfyingly as she opened it. It was large and rather unwieldy, but it had belonged to her grandmother, and she liked the aesthetic of looking things up the old fashioned way.

“You mean you don’t _know_?”

He was so, ridiculous about it, insisting that she should _know_ off the top of her head, and something in her snapped. He was a prick, and he deserved a proper dressing down, didn’t he? She looked at him incredulously.

“So—Potter. _Potter_? You want a job here? You know—it’d be ironic.”

“Ha ha.”

“Well, what do you do for a living, Potter?”

“Medicine.”

“Oh?”

“Well, my parents own a…”

“Ah.” She didn’t need to hear more—that better fit with her idea of him, didn’t it? “And do you know every aspect of your job, Potter?”

Before he could answer, she cut him off: “Look around, yes? What do you see?”

“Er, flowers?”

“They’re pretty, yes? I’m the cute girl with the cute shop and the cute flowers, and that’s— _it_ for most people. A bloke forgets an anniversary. Sympathies or condolences. A few select customers ask for a specific arrangement. Occasionally, I’ll get a proper gardener in and we’ll chat—those are a nice break in my day. A pretty hand-written card. Thing is, there’s a bit more to it than, _er_ , flowers—”

“Ah—”

“—I took calligraphy classes to perfect the script. I’ve got to worry about what varieties I can get in at any given time, and from whom. I’ve got—suppliers on three continents, dozens of them, and I manage those contacts myself. I’m busy filling orders, meticulously managing inventory, dealing with unruly _customers_ —”

“Look—”

“No, _you_ look. I’ve got marketing,”—she held up an advert copy she’d been perfecting—“not to _mention_ the hours upon hours of paperwork each week, because this is, after all, a business, and my arse on the line—”

“I mis—”

“I have two assistants who help me, some days, but I’m generally here, alone, sunup to hours past sundown, which is a bit pathetic, I _know_ , but—”

“—it’s _not_ , really—”

“—I’m a very busy woman, Potter, so ex _cuse_ me for not having the meanings of all flowers memorized.”

“Lily—”

“Now, I am going to look up geraniums in this book, and you’re going to stand there and look sheepish and pretend like I haven’t just gone off the rails at you, because now it’s a matter of principle for both of us and we are going to sort out your fucking flowers. Okay?”

“Point taken.”

“I seem to be making a lot of points, aren’t I?” she said, hopping off the stool. When did she hop back on it? _Fucking_ hell.

“Indeed. And—don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve nailed the passive-aggressive bit, yeah?”

She smiled, _damn_ her. “That might’ve bordered on aggressive.”

“Well,” he grinned at her. “I did slam your door.”

“Try again?” she asked.

He nodded.

“So, I’m going to look up your flower, okay?”

“James.”

She was distracted, flipping to the G section. “Hm?”

“My name. James.”

Nice name, James. He splayed his hand against the counter, and her eyes flickered downward, noticing his empty ring finger. _Hm_.

“Ah—” she said lightly, hoping she wasn’t blushing, “here it is.”

She moved through the shop, plucked three of the specific variety of geraniums, and set them in a vase. A hideous vase—Petunia’s shit Christmas gift last year. She’d been saving it for the perfect occasion. This suited perfectly, didn’t it?

Potter approved.

“That’s fucking hideous,” he said. “It’s perfect. D’you think we should have a few carnations? That’s the only other one I know.”

“Well, what _do_ you know about them, then?”

“They’re tack? And never send them to a girl?”

More question than statement, the adorable prick.

“That’s right.”

“The only lesson my Mum taught me that stuck, I think.”

“Smart woman. So, carnations. Which kind do you want? Striped means—you know, you can’t be with that person. Which—who did you say these are for again?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, right.”

She felt her cheeks go pink. Damn her curiosity, and damn her mouth for _asking_ , like a twit. She busied herself with the book.

“Oi,” he said suddenly, “I didn’t mean it like _that_. They’re not for—a girlfriend, or anything. They’re for my best friend’s mum.”

If she had been watching him, she was sure he would be pink, too. In a piss poor attempt to change the subject, she tried humor: “The older ones do it for you, yeah?”

“Please, never say that about her again. She’s my aunt.”

Lily’s hands flew to cover her mouth. Too late—she couldn’t help from giggling. “Oh-my-god-I-am- _so_ -sorry.”

“You should be, Lily—”

“Evans,” Lily corrected him.

That seemed to please him, didn’t it?

“Well, _Evans_. She’s a proper witch. And she’s my fourth cousin twice removed, technically.”

“Does your best friend know you’re sending his mum fuck you flowers?”

“He sent me here to get them.”

“Ah.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, I promise. No details, but she _really_ deserves these.”

He sounded so fucking earnest, didn’t he? She thought of her sister. “Family’s weird, yeah?” He looked relieved that she let it drop, or agreed, or whatever. “And for the carnations, then, you’ll want—” she flipped until she landed on the right page. “Yellow.”

He squinted at the upside down page. “Disappointment?”

“Yes.”

“ _Perfect_.”

He grinned, and her stomach twitched. It might’ve been longing after that biscuit, but probably not.

“Disappointment, coming right up.”

She gathered a fistful of yellow carnations, trimmed them down—on her front counter, like a barbarian—then they scoured the book. Thing was, as it was organized by name rather than meaning, so they found it rather difficult—and time consuming—to find appropriate flowers. He was maddening, wanting to compile a list before picking his options. She’d finally convinced him to trust her judgment—‘local resident flower expert’ or whatever it was he’d called her. They’d scrounged up half a dozen options, but she’d only had two in stock.

Lily, truly, had twenty things she ought to be doing, but as twenty minutes rolled into thirty, then forty, she discovered she enjoyed his company. They’d laughed over flower meanings and even flirted, but she couldn’t be sure. It had occurred to her more than once, and surely to him too, that either of them could pull out a phone and be done with this in ten minutes, but she was enjoying herself far more than she cared to admit, his bad jokes withstanding, and—

“Here’s something,” he said, pointing with his finger. How could he so easily read upside down?

“Candytuff?”

“Yeah. Indifference.”

“I like it. Added benefit: it’s pretty. I have some by the window.”

“I don’t want them to be _too_ pretty, Evans.”

He preferred her surname, which was—interesting. She wasn’t sure it bothered her.

“Potter, if it’s pretty, it’s a thing of beauty in more ways than one. Subtlety, right?”

“Subtlety?”

“I know that’s not your strong suit, but subtlety is often the difference between aggressive and passive-aggressive.”

“I defer to your expertise, then. Mind if I flip through this while you gather indifference?”

“Go ahead.”

She fussed with the vase, trying to work it into something pretty, but this—what they’d gathered so far—was anything but. She stared at it as if it were a math equation he was trying to solve, and Potter stared at her.

“Could we, er, cut off a rose and tuck the stem in there?” he asked, a hand tucked in his hair. Again.

“Like, thorns?”

“Yeah.”

“Subtlety, Potter.”

“But that was his _one_ request.”

“Who—oh, the best mate?”

“Yeah.”

“I—” She was going to say no, but relented at the forlorn look he gave her. “Just one, but you can’t tell her where you got them from.”

“I’m hand delivering them, remember?”

He gave her a winning smile. And it was charming this time. It’s—were these the different circumstances? Already? It had only been an hour. She tried to summon her initial outrage, but he’d been nothing but cordial, and— _fit_ as _fuck_. Fuck. The best she could muster was a weak, “Right.”

“How many more do reckon we need, Evans?”

She’d let him bury the stemless rose in the middle, which he’d been positively giddy about, and she’d rearranged the flowers to recover the damage he’d made.

“Here,” she said, handing the book to him. “This, and three or four more, and that’s it.”

“Meadowsweet? But it says that means usefulness. Which is”—he grinned, figuring it out—“perfect.”

“Exactly. And, bonus, it makes for a lovely filler.”

“You’re terrifying, Evans. I mean that in the best possible way, of course.”

She flicked a rose petal at him. “ _Cheers_.”

The meadowsweet helped, minimally, but it was still hideous. She was considering relenting and using a prettier vase, but she hated to waste it on such an awful woman. Despite his earlier ‘no details’ assertion, Potter had slipped enough details to convince her that she wasn’t going to hell for sending fuck you flowers to an elderly woman.

“Do you have achillea?” he asked, once she’d fixed the flowers.

“Yarrow?”

“Sure. D’you?”

She peered at the book. “Dare I ask?”

“War.”

“That’s pretty aggressive, isn’t it?”

“Just one, Evans. Make it a cool color, if you have to, to take the edge off.”

“That’s—maddening logic, Potter.”

“It works though, right?”

“I’ll—” She sighed, heavily, and knowing he won, he grinned. “It would look better with three.”

She’d no sooner gathered those, then he followed up with: “Any spearmint?”

“Is this a flower shop, or a bloody apothecary?”

“But do you?”

“I—dammit. Yes I do. Dare I ask?”

“It’s—I’m not telling, just trust me. Add however many you want, okay?”

She threw him a smart-arsed salute and hunted down her spearmint. She came back with that and a bunch of orange lilies in hand.

“Final touch—orange lilies.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’re done.”

“No—the lilies.”

“I _know_ what you meant. They mean: I hate you.”

“Strong.”

 “Stronger than ‘war’?” she teased. No, flirted. _Damn_.

“Point—”

“Taken, I know.” She flicked another rose petal at him. Fuck, her counter was a bloody mess.

“Put in as many as you can, yeah?”

“I’ve got it, Potter. And I think—that’s pretty”—she searched for a descriptor—“full.”

They stared at the flowers—the fucking hideous, awful grouping of flowers she didn’t dare call a proper arrangement. Or put her name on.

James agreed. “That’s—maybe the nicest thing we can say for it, yeah?”

“It’s—hideous, I’m sorry.”

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “It has a certain charm.”

“You’re full of shit, Potter.”

“Glad you’re keeping up.”

“I’m not sure I can let you leave my shop with this.”

“You’ve _got_ to.”

He stuck his bottom lip out, all petulant. She didn’t stand a chance, the adorable prick.

“I— _fine_. No card though. They have my shop name on them.”

“Agreed.”

“I’ll just, tally this up then, yes?”

She waved the list she’d been compiling and started punching numbers into her till.

“Evans?”

“Hm?” she hummed. He was going to ask her, she knew it, and she didn’t take her eyes off the register.

“Is there a flower that means ‘I want to go out with you on Friday’?”

“Er—”

“Subtle, I know. Thing is, I’ve heard you work these slavish hours, right? Sunup to sundown? And it’s a bit pathetic, if you ask me—not that you did—and it could be, I dunno…good for you, to get out of these four walls, say, Friday?”

God, he was adorable, and rambling, and he had no idea how to properly ask a girl out, did he?

“Forty-six seventeen,” she said abruptly, turning pink.

“What?”

“Your total. For the flowers.”

“Oh. Right.” He slumped, then wordlessly handed over his money. She dared not make eye contact—she’d give herself away. The model of professionalism, she counted her change and handed it back.

“Here you go,” she said, setting the bills in his hand, “seven.”

He glanced down at them. “That’s only three.”

“No, James.” She chucked another rose petal at his nose. “Friday. Seven?”

“I—” He looked up, and his face split into a wide grin, upon seeing hers. “The subtlety thing?”

“Yes.” She fidgeted with the book. “I mean—I’m glad you asked, because it saved me the trouble. You can’t spend an hour coming up with creative ways to say ‘fuck you’ with flowers and not bond with a person, you know? And I want to hear how your delivery goes, and I, you know—” Christ, she was talking too much. _She_ was a rambling mess, and she had no idea how to accept a date. “Yes, to Friday. Seven?”

“Seven.” He swiped his vase off the counter. “I should—get back to my mate, yeah?”

“And I’ve a shop to run.”

“Friday?”

“Cheers.”

“Enjoy your invoices, Evans, and your stodgy customers. Brush up on your flower meanings in your excessive free time, yeah?”

She tossed another rose petal at him, and James, grinning, headed for the door.


End file.
